


Amuse-bouche

by MovesLikeBucky



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is Good at Cunnilingus (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, M/M, Overstimulation, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, contains NSFW art, love that that is a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Crowley isn’t paying attention to the food, though.  He never has and will never bother to.  His eyes are fixed on his angel, and on that angel’s mouth.  On the pink flash of tongue that darts out to meet every forkful; a welcome into the warmth and wet of him.  A prelude to pleasure and enjoyment.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 212
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Amuse-bouche

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo we're back at it again today (also RIP my subscribers I'm gonna be posting every day for 12 days starting on Christmas but hey it's fine! Right? anyway.)
> 
> So [topaziraphale](https://topaziraphale.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr got this ask, and thus I wrote this fic while my good friend [sungmee](https://sungmee.tumblr.com)/[doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise) did [this art](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1341618738441891841?s=20) that is also featured in the fic below
> 
>   
>  _  
> **This is your big heads up there is nsfw art in this fic**  
>  _  
> 

Aziraphale moans wantonly around his fork, a low rumbling sound that sends a spark of electricity shooting down Crowley’s spine. It’s high tea at the Savoy, with winter in full swing. The velouté doesn’t know how lucky it is. “It’s my favorite,” Aziraphale says. He says that about everything at the expensive places, and at the dingy dives, too. 

Crowley isn’t paying attention to the food, though. He never has and will never bother to. His eyes are fixed on his angel, and on that angel’s mouth. On the pink flash of tongue that darts out to meet every forkful; a welcome into the warmth and wet of him. A prelude to pleasure and enjoyment.

“The tomato and the artichoke…oh! And with the cream, its just _divine_ , Crowley.” Aziraphale’s gaze shifts, locks with Crowley’s as he gathers a bit on his fork. All the ingredients, the perfect bite. He turns the fork in Crowley’s direction, “Do try some, my dear.”

“Nah, not much for eating.”

“I insist,” Aziraphale says in a voice that demands obedience…

_…Aziraphale’s tongue darts out, tracing the edges of Crowley’s labia, a steady pressure not unlike the pressure of the angel’s hand, pressing down on his stomach and pinning him to the desk. Aziraphale is a vision on his knees, kneeling in supplication between Crowley’s legs, drinking from the very core of him. Moaning like he does over desert at the expensive places, and at the dingy dives, too._

_He leans back and away from Crowley, who whimpers at the loss, hungry and desperate even after just a light teasing. His breath is heavy, labored, intense — he’s barely been touched and he’s already unravelling._

_Aziraphale licks his lips, a flash of pink; a flash of temptation. “Delectable,” he whispers into the quiet of the bookshop, “I could savor you for hours and never have my fill, dear boy.”_

_Crowley whines low in his throat at the thought, earns a reproachful look from Aziraphale._

_“Darling, you have to be quiet,” Aziraphale says, trailing gentle kisses along Crowley’s shivering and shuddering thighs in between his words, “I haven’t closed the shop. What would anyone think if they found you like this? Spread out across my desk, a mess of ink and papers, needy thing that you are.”_

_“Angel, angel please,” Crowley begs as he throws his head back, skull thudding against the wood, muted only slightly by the papers underneath._

_“I suppose it wouldn’t do to keep you waiting…”_

“...I’m waiting, Crowley,” Aziraphale says expectantly as Crowley stares. He feels like a prey animal caught in the grasp of a predator, unable to move and unable to form thoughts. But Aziraphale is waiting, and if he wants Crowley to try a bite, he supposes he should do that. He reaches for the fork, but Aziraphale pulls away. “No, no, let me…”

Aziraphale extends the fork again, and Crowley takes the hint. He leans in, takes the proffered bite.

“Savor it, darling…”

Crowley is powerless against this particular tone of Aziraphale’s, and has never been able to resist. He chews slowly, savors the bitter bite of the artichoke, the bright acidity of the tomato; both of them tampered by the creaminess of the Devonshire. He swallows slowly, watches Aziraphale trace the motion of his throat as the waiter comes by with the sandwiches.

“Very good, love…”

_“…So good for me, aren’t you dear?” Aziraphale coos at him low as he strokes one of those damnable fingers across Crowley’s entrance, never quite landing where he wants it to. Every stroke begets a wet and filthy sound that seems to echo louder in the backroom than strictly necessary._

_“Please, angel, need you…” Crowley pants to the ceiling and to the old books, eyes rolled back, so far on edge that he wishes he could jump. Aziraphale’s grip on his thigh is bruising, the pressure is intense but not too much. Aziraphale swipes his finger right over Crowley’s core, the wettest part of him._

_“I can tell, so wet for me, you’re practically dripping onto the desk…” Aziraphale brings his finger to his lips, darts out his tongue to touch the pad of it, a welcome to the warmth and wet of him, a prelude to pleasure and enjoyment as he sucks Crowley’s juices off his own finger._

_Crowley clenches around nothing, wanting so desperately to be touched, whining for it, bucking his hips for it. “Please, Aziraphale, mercy I can’t…”_

_“Oh darling, I want to give you everything…” Aziraphale spreads Crowley’s thighs further, and the weight of his gaze on the most intimate part of him is overwhelming. “Gorgeous thing, so desperate for me, aren’t you?”_

_The moment stretches into an infinity spurred on by want and anticipation as Crowley waits for Aziraphale to strike. The prey in the grip of the predator, unable to move or to form thoughts, waiting to be devoured._

_Crowley nods, “Yes, angel, please, need you…”_

_“I’m glad to hear it,” Aziraphale smiles as he presses a finger directly to Crowley’s clit as he holds back a moan with every bit of himself. “Now just lie back, and let me take care of you…”_

“…I do so love when you take care of me…” Aziraphale says during dessert, over the winter tartlets of frangipane and fresh raspberries. High tea has gone this way, one bite for Aziraphale, and one bite for Crowley from the same fork. There must be a miracle over the restaurant patrons and staff, preventing them from staring; at the very least preventing them from noticing the increasingly pornographic noises that Aziraphale has made throughout the meal.

Crowley’s been wet for ages now, thinking back to yesterday, to the bookshop and the desk and how Aziraphale had used that damnable tongue then. He’s sure he’s soaked through his skinny jeans by now, and is resisting every urge in himself to rut against his chair.

“…take care of you?” He finally asks, mind catching up with the words he’s just heard.

“Yes, my love,” Aziraphale says as he reaches across the table, across the chasm that doesn’t exist anymore, and takes Crowley’s hand as easy as breathing, “High tea at the Savoy, walks in the park, crepes in Paris, you always take such good care of me. Do I take good care of you?”

There’s an earnestness in the question, a seeking of truth that Crowley can’t hide from, not while Aziraphale is staring at him so open. Not while he’s distracted by just how much he wants and desires. Not while he’s privy to the proof of said wants and desires simmering under the surface of his skin.

Yellow eyes meet storm grey as the answer falls from Crowley’s lips. 

“Yes, angel, yes…”

_“…Yes, angel, yes!” Crowley cries out, hands twined in blond curls as Aziraphale fucks him open on his tongue, devouring him like his favorite ice cream from the park. Aziraphale moans against his clit and Crowley finds his release, clenches down around Aziraphale’s tongue, bucks his hips up to grind on Aziraphale’s face._

_But Aziraphale doesn’t stop, he keeps going. He moves his ministrations from Crowley’s core to his clit, swirling and lapping at it slowly and oh so_ devastating _. Crowley’s hips try to shift backwards, sated and stimulated, but Aziraphale’s grip on his thighs is too strong. He can already feel the bruises he’ll be sporting tomorrow, relishes the sting of them, the pinprick pain of Aziraphale’s fingernails digging into his skin._

__

_Aziraphale lets go of one and Crowley whimpers at the loss of pressure. Aziraphale just sucks his clit harder, making him gasp and lose what breath he has left in his lungs. There’s a pressure at his entrance as Aziraphale pushes in one finger, pulsing in and out, keeping the slow rhythm his tongue is setting. The slick noises and breathy moans are like music to Crowley’s ears, the greatest symphony he never thought he’d be able to hear._

_Aziraphale brings a second finger in alongside the first, plunges them deep into Crowley, crooking them just so and hitting just the right spot deep inside of him._

_Crowley comes a second time with a noiseless cry as Aziraphale works him through it. Crowley’s thighs shudder and his toes curl, the edges of his vision black out and he swears he can see the stars he created so long ago…_

“…That was simply scrumptious,” Aziraphale says as he lays down his napkin, signaling the waiters that the meal is over. He eyes Crowley with an appraising look, drifting from where Crowley’s hands are plastered to the tablecloth and shaking, up to his eyes, which have long since lost their whites behind his glasses. 

Crowley thinks, not for the first time, that Aziraphale can see right through that smoky glass. He surely can see right through Crowley. Crowley is certain Aziraphale can tell that one touch, one faint brush of his hand down Crowley’s tight trousers would be enough to make him come. Hell, the angel could probably do it with a word at this point.

“Well…” Aziraphale says with a raised eyebrow and just enough suggestion behind it to be interesting, “What are you in the mood for now?”

  
  



End file.
